How They Were Found (22 page)

Persistence of fate, of karma, of destiny, of  a wheel turning and turning, crushing whatever falls beneath its heel.

Phones, both answered and unanswered. Bearers of bad news.

Phones ringing and ringing and ringing.

Photographs, blown up and then cropped until the wounds disappear beyond the borders of the frame.

Photographs, mailed to me from Michigan, of my father's body, as unrecognizable as the distance between us.

Photographs of crime scenes, always the same series of angles, repeated for each murder.

Photographs of my brother, dead before he could scream.

Photographs of my brother's eye, of the knife wound left where it used to be.

Photographs of my brother's lips, pressed together in sleep, then death.

Photographs of my mother's face, bruised and broken.

Photographs of my mother's teeth, on the floor of the car.

Photographs of our family of five, and then of four, and then of three. There are no photographs of our family of two. We do not gather. We do not congregate.

Photographs, plastered like wallpaper until all I can see from my desk are familiar clavicles and jaw lines and hands placed palms up to expose too-short life lines.

Police, as in, I have had my fill of the police.

Poison, a possibility. Must prepare my own food, avoid restaurants, parties, buffets and potlucks.

Pre-meditation, as way of life.

Prevention: See, GOOD FUCKING LUCK.

Questions, how can there not be questions?

Risk, always there is the risk that at any moment one wrong word or action might bring upon we who are left what has already been brought to bear on those who are gone.

Rope: There are so many cruelties that can be done with rope that it is hard to know what to be afraid of.

Search party, looking for my mother, before we knew she'd gone through the surface of the lake.

Sister, memory of: Happy in the fourth grade when she won the school spelling bee. Happy at her confirmation, when God promised to protect her forever. Happy at my brother's wedding, dancing the polka. Happy, happy, happy, until she wasn't happy anymore or ever again.

Sister, survivor. She has tried to live a life free of dangers. She follows every rule, every instruction, takes every precaution. She does not talk to strangers, either men or women. She does not talk to children or babies. She does not pet dogs or hold cats or touch any other small domestic animals. In her purse, she keeps both mace and pepper spray, but she never walks anywhere. She has a tazer in her glove box, but never drives. If she walks or if she drives, then she will die. If she rides in cars with others, then they too will die because she is with them. There are no knives or forks or shovels or tire irons in her house. She does not answer her phone or check her e-mail or open her door, ever, even if it is me knocking. She has done everything she can, but it will not be enough. I have not seen her in months, but that does not mean I believe she is safe. Sooner or later, my phone will ring, and then I will know that she too is gone.

Sometimes, I go to department store perfume counters and spray my mother's scent onto a test card. In the back of my wallet are dozens of these now scentless things, marked only by the splotch stained across the white cardstock.

Sometimes, I think of my father without realizing he's gone, my heart numb as an amputee's fingers, as a lost hand trying to pick up a telephone over and over and over.

Sometimes, while I'm petting my brother's dog, I have to stop myself from hurting it, from punishing it for its failure to bark, to warn, to save its owner's life.

Strangulation, as possibility. To be that close to the killer, to see his eyes, to feel his breath, to press my windpipe against his grip—After all I have endured, after all I have imagined, this is one of the most satisfying ways I can see to go. This is a way that at least one question might get an answer.

Survivor, but probably not for long.

Tattoo of my sister's first initial, eventually to be inked but not yet necessary.

Tattoos, as reminders, as warnings, as expectations of loss.

The sound of a black bag being zippered shut.

The sound of a brother comforting a brother, ignorant of the doom between them.

The sound of a bullet making wet music in his organs.

The sound of a car breaking the surface of a lake.

The sound of a confession, taped and played back.

The sound of a gunshot reverberating, echoing between concrete facades.

The sound of a knife, clacking against bone.

The sound of a message played over and over until the tape wears thin.

The sound of a phone going unanswered.

The sound of a police siren, of multiple sirens responding to multiple events.

The sound of a sentence heard three times, that means loss, that means murder, that means another taken from me.

The sound of a sister crying and crying.

The sound of a sister saying goodbye, saying that this will be the last time you will see her, for both your sakes.

The sound of a woman screaming for hours.

The sound of an alarm ringing.

The sound of sirens, a Doppler effect of passing emergency.

The sound of testimony, of witnessing.

The sound of words left unsaid.

Things that never were, and things that never will.

Understanding, as in lack thereof.

Vengeance, but never enough. Always state-sanctioned, always unsatisfying.

Victim is a broad term, a generalization, an umbrella under which we are all gathered at one time or another.

Violations of the law symbolize violations of the person, of the family, of the community. This is why they must be punished.

We regret to inform you.

We regret to inform you.

We regret to inform you.

What it takes to cut yourself off.

What it takes to defend your family.

What it takes to hide forever.

What it takes to kill a man.

What it takes to see this through to the end.

What it takes to solve the crime.

What it takes to take back what is yours.

Why, as in, Why us?

Witness, general.

Witnesses, specific: The other men and women who were with my father that night, plus the other people who were walking down the street when the shots were fired. The bartender and two waitresses, plus the policemen who arrived on the scene. I have interviewed them all myself, months later, after the conviction of the killer. The crime already solved, but not yet understood.

Wound, as in bullet hole, as in burn, as in puncture, as in slashing, as in fatal.

X, as in, to solve for X, as in, to complete the equation.

X, tattooed on my chest, above my heart.

X, that calls out to he who will commit this deed, to she who might end all that I am.

X, that marks the spot.

X, that will come to be.

X, which could stand for absolutely anything.

Y, the shape of an autopsy scar zippering the chest of a loved one.

Y, the sound of the question I cannot answer.

Y, the sound of the only question worth asking.

You, reading this.

You. Yes, you.

You, you, and you. You may not know yet, or maybe you always have, have felt the fist of the deed clenched in your heart for years. Please, do not wait any longer. I am tired of the fear, tired of the anticipation, tired of the day after day after day.

Zero, as brother.

Zero, as father.

Zero, as identity.

Zero, as memory.

Zero, as mother.

Zero, as name.

Zero, as self.

Zero, as silence.

Zero, as sister.

Zero: What will remain.

Thank you to the editors who first published these stories, including Ken Baumann, Sean Bishop, Laurie Cedilnik, Scott Garson, Roxane Gay, Aja Gabel, Sam Ligon, Steven J. McDermott, Bradford Morrow, Otto Penzler, M. Bartley Spiegel, and Beth Staples. A special thanks to Amanda Raczkowski, Joseph Reed, and Molly Gaudry for publishing my first two chapbooks, both of which are represented here in some form.

Thank you to the members of my various writing groups who served as the first readers and editors for these stories, including Aaron Burch, Blake Butler, Ryan Call, Elizabeth Ellen, Barry Graham, Sean Kilpatrick, Josh Maday, and Jeff Vande Zande.

Thank you to the many other writers who inspired and encouraged me, including Gary Amdahl, Suzanne Burns, Kim Chinquee, Dennis Cooper, Matthew Derby, Kitty Dubin, Brian Evenson, Tod Goldberg, Amelia Gray, Lily Hoang, Dave Housley, Laird Hunt, Charles Jensen, Michael Kimball, Norman Lock, Kyle Minor, Benjamin Percy, Jim Ruland, J.A. Tyler, Deb Olin Unferth, and William Walsh.

Thank you to my professors at Bowling Green State University, especially Michael Czyzniejewski and Wendell Mayo. Thanks also to the talented and inspiring friends I shared my years there with, especially Callista Buchen, Joe Celizic, Nikkita Cohoon, Dustin Hoffman, Brandon Jennings, Stephanie Marker, Catherine Templeton, Anne Valente, and Jacqueline Vogtman.

Thank you to Steven Gillis and Dan Wickett, for letting me work beside them at Dzanc Books. Thanks also to Tyler Gobble, Liana Imam, Matthew Olzmann, Marie Schutt, Steven Seighman, and everyone else who works with me on
The Collagist
and
Best of the Web
.

Thank you to Peter Cole, for his long belief in these pages.

Thank you to my friends and family, especially my brothers Nick and Luke, my sisters Liz and Katie, and my parents Ken and Michele.

Thank you to everyone else I have neglected to thank in this too-small space: Your contributions and friendship have not gone forgotten or unappreciated.

Most importantly: Thank you to my wife Jessica, without whose constant love and support and friendship the making of these words would not have been possible.